The Last Night of the Kings
by Emachinescat
Summary: "We are the folk and we have the right to stand up and to fight for an independent life."  When does trying to free your kingdom from tyranny go too far?  How many innocents must be killed, how many prophecies undermined? Based on the song by Van Canto.


The Last Night of the Kings by Emachinescat

A Merlin Fan-Fiction

SUMMARY: "We are the folk and we have the right to stand up and to fight for an independent life." When does trying to free your kingdom from tyranny go too far? How many innocents must be killed, how many prophecies undermined? Based on the song by Van Canto.

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**A/N: Okay, so I know that I'm already behind on my other stories and that I'm supposed to be updating them instead of writing a new one, but I was introduced to the most amazing song that demanded a Merlin story be written and based upon its inspiration. This story is based on the song of the same title by a German acapella group, Van Canto. They are absolutely AMAZING and when I heard this song, I knew it was perfect and that I _had_ to write this story. It takes place near the beginning of the third season, sometime after episode 5. Neither Merlin nor Van Canto's _Last Night of the _Kings belongs to me. Enjoy!**

**WARNING: This is VERY dark and involves a lot of main character death. But don't let that stop you - if no one read Hamlet because Hamlet or Laertes dies, then Shakespeare wouldn't be the most renowned playwright like ever, would he? :P Please REVIEW!**

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**The Last Night of the Kings**

_The castle is lit with candles and torches  
The carriages of the nobles arrive in front  
The smell of splendor and decadence  
And nobody can foresee_

There are twenty of them.

They stand in the shadows of the forest, cloaks latched around their necks, the hoods hanging down their backs. From somewhere close by they can hear the sporadic chatter of the blind, the deaf, and the mute as they fret about, arriving at the grandest ball Camelot has ever known – the celebration of twenty-two years since the Great Purge. Since the purge of magic. Since the King, Uther, with his pet of a son, Arthur, began to terrorize the guilty and the innocent alike.

They may have the ability to see the truth, but they choose not to.

They may have the ability to hear the truth, but they choose not to.

They may have the ability to speak the truth, but they choose not to.

The twenty that lurk in the trees, shielded from the half-moon peering out from behind a thin layer of gray clouds, they not only have the ability to see, hear, and speak the truth, but they have the stomach to _do_ something about it.

They are waiting for their leader.

_The masters and mistresses are walking through the hall  
They are smiling and laughing and showing that they're tall  
They don't recognize that we're waiting there  
And just nobody can foresee  
This is the last night of the kings_

She strides through the extravagant halls, smiling courteously at everyone she passes, her gray eyes acting as a shield to protect her most deadly secrets. What she is about to unleash.

She tries not to look as if she is in a hurry, but she was held up by that fool of a father of hers, lavishing praise upon her, telling her how glad he is that they have mended the rift between them – all the while hiding her true parentage from her.

That is why he is going to die tonight, along with her idiot of a half-brother.

They do not deserve the throne.

Camelot has suffered long enough under Uther's tyranny. She has vowed to put a stop to it, and claim the throne for herself. It is her right. She is entitled to it.

She smirks, her full lips meshing together and curling up at one side. She is about to put the hood of her cloak up, concealing her beautiful face, when _he _passes.

It is as if time has slowed down when their eyes meet and she feels the betrayal, her absolute, uncontestable hatred for him boil over yet again. She has never, nor ever will forgive him for trying to kill her. He will die tonight as well.

Perhaps he will die even more painfully than the others.

She can tell that he suspects something but he does not speak his concerns. He merely keeps his eyes locked to hers unblinkingly as they walk by one another. Blue eyes meet gray eyes and she remembers when they used to be friends. Now he had ruined it all.

_They _had ruined it all – her father, her brother, her so-called friends…

And then they are past each other. She watches as men and women, all dressed in elaborate clothing, heads held high as they headed to the ball. How blind, how stupid and foolish, all of them! They think they are someone special because they were invited to this vulgar celebration.

Twenty-two years since her kind was destroyed?

The only kind of celebration she will be participating in is her coronation after the kings are dead.

_The ball has begun and we're closing our trap  
Inwardly we're gathering ourselves  
While the dance comes to higher pace  
Still nobody can foresee_

They gather together, the twenty commoners that she enlisted to fight back against her cause and the witch herself, meeting for the final time before they are to put their plan into action. She whispers solemnly to the group of villagers that have decided they want to exercise their right – and the right of their fellows – to live as they see fit, not how Uther Pendragon wills them to.

"We have reached the point of no return." Her voice is strong and powerful, dangerous and melodious. The twenty stare at her, heads nodding, almost as if entranced by the lull of her voice and the splendor of her beauty. She is going to lead them out of oppression… out of all those who will pay when she takes the throne, these twenty will be placed in positions of great honor.

The rest…will be purged.

They follow her into the ball room, their clothes beautiful and expensive beneath their dark cloaks, all given from her for this deadly masquerade. The music starts up and she scans the room.

She sees the King, seated upon his beloved throne – soon his blood would be spilling over the edges of that symbol of his power. And then his blood – her blood – would take the throne after Arthur was dead as well.

_Joining the circle, in black robes unknown  
Unsheathing our swords and get ready to dance  
Our hearts are filled with the will to survive  
In the last night of their lives  
It's a murderous, murderous ball night_

They never see it coming.

Perhaps Merlin, who knows the truth about where her loyalties lie, suspected something at first. But from her, not from the twenty cloaked citizens she smuggled into the castle. He approaches her, probably to confront her about what she has planned – he must have seen her smirk – but he pays no mind to her minions that are moving slowly, randomly around the room like any other guest.

A sword is unsheathed. Before he can blink, it is embedded in his spine. He stiffens, lets out a yell as he falls to the ground, blood gushing from the wound. Damn. He wasn't supposed to alert the others to what is happening yet.

Arthur hears the cry and turns his head, his mouth falling open at the sight of his servant, his friend, sprawled on the floor of the ballroom, dead or dying from a fatal stab wound in the back. She looks down at his prone figure, sees the eyes flicker and open. Gold.

She stumbles back. He has magic. Her rage intensifies. He has magic, yet never sought to help her when she needed his guidance most? She screams, "KILL HIM!" and before he can cast a spell, another sword impales him, the bloody tip protruding from his chest. There is panic amongst the nobles.

They are cowards, spineless. Some of them will die as well.

She uses her magic to throw back a knight running in their direction – he is dead before he hits the ground. She recognizes him – Sir Leon. She had admired him a long time ago, before she found that nobility was fraught with lies and secrets. The other hidden assassins leap out of hiding, draw their swords, and converge on the king.

Uther fights. Uther loses. Uther dies.

She turns her attention to Arthur. But he is not where she last saw him. Before she can take a step, agonizing pain rips through her whole being as her brother's sword slices through the base of her neck, severing her spinal cord, tearing through her vocal cords and tissue and exiting her body just beneath her chin. The chin that had, moments ago, been lifted up, high and proud.

She hears his voice in her ear even as her spirit is spiraling down, out of her body, terrible, burning pain as soul is ripped from body…

"You shouldn't have killed my friend."

He releases her, but not unlike the man she just killed, the knight that she had once been friends with, Sir Leon, Morgana is dead before she hits the ground.

_We are heroes  
Heroes of the night  
We are ready to live forevermore  
Our gods lead us through this fight  
On and on  
We are one and on our way_

In the end they take him by surprise. He thinks that because the leader of the rebellion is over, the threat has gone. How very wrong he is.

He is kneeling by the bodies of his servant and father. The survivors are sobbing, screaming, stumbling around, terrified, mourning…

As they watch the prince – the king, now – mourn over his servant, many begin to wonder if this king is different. If he will be different. If he cares more about the common man than his father had. They are contemplating letting him live, take the throne. Perhaps a new age will begin. Perhaps magic will be restored. Perhaps Albion will even be reunited again.

But then one young man, overtaken by bloodlust and rage bursts forth from their ranks and, bellowing, rushes at the new king, who is kneeling, sobbing over the bodies of his friends and family. It is a low shot. The blade enters his back and comes out at his chest, just like his servant's death. His father's.

Blue eyes stare up blankly at the large ceiling of the hall.

The deed is done. The people are freed from tyranny but now have no one to rule. Unsure, they drop their weapons one by one, fleeing into the night. Let the living nobles clean up the mess. They will run for their own lives while they still can.

In one night, destiny has been shattered, the prophesized bright future destroyed. But the oppressor has been oppressed. Shouldn't they be rejoicing?

All they feel is bitterness and fear. Why aren't they happier?

_We are the folk  
And we have the right  
To stand up and fight  
For an independent life  
We are the force  
We are the might  
We will stand up  
For an independent life_

After all, it _is_ the last night of the kings.

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**A/N: I know, I know, VERY dark, everyone dies. I was in a dark mood I suppose. Still, please review, let me know what you think – and the song is wonderful, you should check it out!**

**~Emachinescat ^..^**


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